


exposé redux

by erebones



Series: breathing underwater [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Critical Role: Wildemount Campaign (Web Series)
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Groping, M/M, Sleepy Sex, oh no he's hot part deux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 20:52:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13749048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: Fjord's POV of "exposé" with a porny addendum.The table hides it from the rest of the party, helped by low light and the common thread of inebriation. Fjord burns from the inside. He can’t tell how much of it is Caleb being sleepy and half-drunk, and how much of it is genuine interest as Caleb’s hand settles, works, massaging almost like a cat kneading a pillow. Except the pillow is Fjord’s inner thigh and Caleb has no claws, only gentle fingers and an occasional gruff rumble as he laughs at something absurd Nott has done.





	exposé redux

Fjord is usually better at this. Better at… removing himself from the situation, taking a mental step back and remembering that it’s probably better to _not_. It should be doubly true in a group like this, where any sideways glance or lingering look could be seen by someone else and remarked upon, loudly and without an ounce of shame. His eyes flick to Jester out of a belated sense of self-preservation. She’s busy kneeling in the water, trying to convince Nott to let her wash her hair. Nott’s arms are crossed and her chin set stubbornly. It’s going to be a long battle—he has a moment of breathing room.

He wades into the water, head bowed, eyes moving under his lashes as he follows the path of ripples to the center of the pond. He keeps to himself, using handfuls of sand scooped from the shore to scour dirt and sweat away, spooning handfuls of water over his freshly healed wounds. The pain is just an itch in the back of his mind. The rest of him is focused on the man sitting dolefully in chest-deep water, hunched against wandering eyes. Fjord tries to oblige him, but his gaze keeps coming back like a water boatman skimming along a river-bottom.

He’s never seen Caleb so undressed before, and he doesn’t think it’s an accident. Caleb is a private person, slow to reveal personal information and quick to protect himself and the things he values—Nott, his books, his own history. Fjord understands. He has things he wants to protect, too. Keep safe from prying eyes. But gods help him if it isn’t the hardest thing to keep his own eyes to himself when Caleb finally climbs out of the pond, glistening and surprisingly well-defined without his layers of tattered clothing.

Of course Fjord isn’t the only one who notices. Turns out Caleb was hiding quite a lot. He’s even thinner without clothes on, almost frighteningly so, but he’s more defined in the chest and shoulders than Fjord would have suspected, and he’s got a very slight softness at the waist that looks like it would be good for holding onto. His chest is lightly furred with blond hair that narrows into a darker line as it disappears into his sodden trousers. A peculiar heat washes over Fjord’s face and down his chest, and he knows he’s blushing. _Dammit._

At that precise moment, Caleb lifts his head and locks eyes with him. The heat spikes and Fjord resumes fiddling with the laces of his trousers to avoid his knowing gaze.

The walk back to town seems fraught, somehow. At least to him. The rest of the party is quiet but lighthearted, still riding the high of a successful rout. Nott rides atop Molly’s shoulders, fingers running reverently over his bejeweled horns—but if she lifts anything, Fjord’s eyes aren’t keen enough to spot it. Beau has given up trying to get Yasha to crack a smile, and instead walks arm in arm with Jester, blue head bent toward brown as they whisper and snicker together at the head of the group. Yasha takes the rear as usual, stalking silently, clinging to shadows. And Caleb, of course, side by side with Fjord, the silence between them strung as taut as a wire about to snap.

Fjord glances at him out of the corner of his eye and finds Caleb doing the same. He bites his lip and looks away in a hurry. _Fuck._

Then, a gentle chuckle. Fjord turns and meets Caleb’s eyes again, this time lit with a weary, weatherbeaten humor that lights warmth deep in Fjord’s chest. The tension eases, a little. He had thought Jester was talking out of her ass, before, but now he has the distinct feeling that they have come to some kind of unspoken agreement, him and Caleb.

He looks back at the road ahead. The next few strides brush the edge of his cloak with Caleb’s trailing scarf, and Fjord shivers. He’s really looking forward to that beer.

* * *

 A few hours and a few ales make a world of difference. Warm and pleasantly buzzed enough to push him over the edge of nerves, Fjord sits wedged in a booth between Caleb and Molly, the latter of whom is leaned forward, showing Nott how to cheat at cards. It only feels natural, in the narrow space, to stretch his left arm along the back of the bench, behind Caleb’s shoulders. At first he keeps a healthy inch or two of space between them, but as the night wears on, Caleb droops toward him inch by inch, until his head is practically on Fjord’s shoulder and his hand is definitely, irrefutably on Fjord’s thigh.

The table hides it from the rest of the party, helped by low light and the common thread of inebriation. Fjord burns from the inside. He can’t tell how much of it is Caleb being sleepy and half-drunk, and how much of it is genuine interest as Caleb’s hand settles, works, massaging almost like a cat kneading a pillow. Except the pillow is Fjord’s inner thigh and Caleb has no claws, only gentle fingers and an occasional gruff rumble as he laughs at something absurd Nott has done.

One by one they drag themselves off to bed. Molly is one of the last, and he tweaks Fjord’s ear as he goes, teeth glinting in a wicked smile as he vaults over the table and slumps upstairs. And then it’s just the two of them, Caleb all but snoring into his ear. Fjord has settled lower and lower in the booth as the night wore on, and now he’s near asleep himself, chin to chest, legs spread wide under the table. A few inches and Caleb’s slack fingers would be settled right… there…

Fjord stiffens and sits upright, jostling Caleb’s hand away from his crotch. Caleb hums and stretches, but doesn’t move away from the warm weight of Fjord’s arm across his shoulders.

“Something wrong?” he murmurs. He doesn’t sound as sleepy as he looks.

“I’m—um—nothing. Just, time for bed?” Fjord stammers.

“Mmmm. Yes, that sounds like a good idea.”

Caleb removes himself from the booth with surprising grace. Fjord’s exit feels clumsy and boorish by comparison, and then he realizes his mistake. He no longer has the table to hide behind.

But if Caleb notices the strained placket of Fjord's trousers, he doesn’t comment. Instead he scatters a few coins on the table and wraps himself in his coat, leading the way to the stairs. Fjord follows suit, trying to walk normally. He wonders if he can get away with slipping off to the baths for a few minutes, just to get himself in order.

But Caleb doesn’t give him the chance. As soon as they’re upstairs, out of sight of the remaining handful of patrons at the bar, he reaches out and takes Fjord’s hand, so gentle it barely registers, and slowly backs him against the wall. Fjord goes, suddenly breathless, like everything in his chest has been sucked out and replaced with Caleb’s steady blue thousand-yard stare.

“Caleb…” he whispers, unsure.

“Is this all right?” Caleb returns. He’s an inch or two below Fjord’s height, but Fjord feels pinned, unable to pry his spine away from the wall. Not that he particularly cares to.

“Yeah. I mean—are you…?”

“I saw you looking. Earlier,” Caleb murmurs by way of explanation. His hands alight on Fjord’s tunic, so scarce he can barely feel it.

“Likewise.” Fjord licks his lips. “You’re a sight for sore eyes under all that, Widogast.” Encouraged by Caleb’s flushing uncertainty, he reaches under his coat to grip his waist. It’s soft, just like he imagined it would be. And when he pulls him close, Caleb comes, pliant and willing.

Their lips meet in the middle. Fjord barely has to crane at all, which can only mean that Caleb has rocked up onto his toes, and that mental image is so overwhelmingly adorable that Fjord smiles against his mouth.

“What’s so funny?” Caleb whispers.

Fjord kisses his lower lip and then the edge of his sympathetic smile. “Nothing. Just…” Gods, he’s too tired to even pretend to be coherent. “Nothin’ at all.”

“I don’t believe you,” Caleb says, but he doesn’t seem too concerned about prying the truth out of him. He presses up against Fjord’s front, tangling his fingers in Fjord’s hair and rocking their hips together. Fjord makes a small muffled sound in his throat. “What?”

“That coat’s good for somethin’ else, too.” He tugs the open placket and drags Caleb’s mouth back to his, letting the cloth fall to disguise the way he grabs Caleb’s arse and grinds their hips together.

Caleb gasps a quiet laugh against Fjord’s jaw. “I’ve been hard for most of the night,” he admits.

“Hmmm, so have I,” Fjord growls. “I wonder whose fault that is.”

“Fair’s fair,” Caleb grins. Unimpeded by the shadowed hall, Fjord can see the deep red flush suffusing his face, the faint sheen of sweat gleaming on his brow. When Fjord nibbles down his throat and buries his nose in the crook of his neck, he smells like pure alpine water and salt, and faintly of burnt incense. Caleb whispers, “Oh, fuck,” and Fjord breaks.

“Come on,” he says, finally breaking away from the wall to pull Caleb toward their shared room. There’s a chance that Nott might be there, sleeping, in which case Fjord is happy to stake out the communal washrooms for the chance to ease the tension building in his pelvis. But when the door opens, the small room is empty, all their gear exactly where they’d left it and the two twin-sized beds pushed together in the center of the room.

“Were we being too obvious?” Caleb wonders lightly, already shrugging out of his long coat.

“Does it matter?”

“Touché.”

Fjord is already reaching for him. Caleb slides into his arms so easily, like he was always meant to be there, filling a void Fjord didn’t know he carried. The kissing is almost secondary—the weight of him in Fjord’s arms is the apex of this moment, supplanting everything else.

“Please,” Fjord whispers, though he doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. Caleb cups his face in his hands and walks him backwards.

“On the bed. Boots off, everything— _off_.”

“Yes,” Fjord gasps. He falls back as his legs hit the mattress, fumbling to rid himself of his clothes. His fingers feel thick and clumsy, made more so by the distracting image of Caleb peeling off his shirt. There is no trace of uncertainty now as Caleb unlaces his trousers and kicks them off with his smallclothes, leaving him bare and pale in the moonlight.

“One moment,” Caleb says as Fjord tries to reach for him. His brow furrows, and a moment later a dancing ball of light bursts from his fingers, nearly blinding Fjord.

“Ouch, fuck!”

“Oh, gods, I’m sorry!” Caleb hastily stows it beneath a blanket, reducing the glare to a soft glowing pallor at the foot of the bed. “Are you all right my love, I completely forgot your darkvision—”

“I’m fine,” Fjord says gruffly, placated by the unthinking endearment. “C’mere, darlin’, and let me look at you.”

Caleb goes rosy again and kneels on the bed. A gentle tug at his waist and he’s falling, easy, tumbling right into Fjord’s arms. Where he belongs. “Just look?” he whispers, and then squeaks when Fjord gives his bare arse a gentle pinch. “ _Fjord_.”

“ _Caleb_ ,” Fjord mocks softly. The pinch turns into a grope, which turns into a grind, which turns into mouths together and hot breaths and smooth, sweaty skin. Caleb tries very hard to be quiet, but a constant stream of little sighs and whimpers escape regardless, mostly pressed into Fjord’s shoulder or the pillow behind his head. Fjord groans and turns them over, bracing himself against the mattress as Caleb wraps his legs around his waist.

“Wanted to do this… forever,” Fjord admits, letting tingling, salty slickness gather in his palm. His hand is just large enough to wrap around both their cocks together, and the added pressure is enough to make him see stars.

“Yes… yes, gods,” Caleb whimpers, back arching against the mattress. His fingers have turned to claws on Fjord’s shoulders—he’ll have marks in the morning, but it’ll have been worth it. “Fjord…”

“Shhh,” Fjord soothes. “Thin walls, darlin’.”

He can feel Caleb’s toes curling against the backs of his thighs. “I don’t care,” Caleb says. His chest is heaving, sheened with sweat, every breath a desperate waft of heat against Fjord’s neck. “Fjord, please, _please_ …”

The bed frames are starting to squeak. Fjord kneels up a bit for a better angle and nearly puts his entire leg through the growing gap between the mattresses. Caleb snorts a laugh and grapples him, clinging to his back as Fjord clumsily fucks the ring of his own hand.

“It’s fuckin’ hard, okay?” Fjord blusters, but that only garners more laughter.

“Oh it absolutely is,” Caleb purrs. He reaches one hand between them and runs light fingertips over the place where their dicks slide together. There’s a light tickle and then suddenly a surge of sensation, like a crackle of electricity, that raises the hairs on the back of Fjord’s neck. He swears filthily in orcish and pitches forward, sudden climax catching him off-guard. He can hear distantly, as through a tube, the smothered cries of Caleb finding his own orgasm.

* * *

He wakes in the early hours of the morning, sprawled diagonally across the beds, Caleb curled beneath his arm. They’ve kicked the blankets to the floor somehow, and the sticky remnants of the night before are smeared across his skin. Fjord vaguely remembers dozing off together in the immediate aftermath of sex—that battle must have really taken it out of him. He usually at least _tries_ to be a gentleman.

With stiff movements, he gets up and goes to the foot of the bed where Caleb’s dancing light still flickers, dim and sputtering, beneath a blanket. A gentle dispel darkens the room and Fjord retrieves the blanket with a stifled groan at the twinge of complaint in his back.

In bed, Caleb stirs. “Not that I don’t appreciate the view, but I’d rather you were here in bed with me,” the wizard murmurs hoarsely. Fjord blushes and turns, bringing the blanket with.

“I was cold,” he confesses. “Here.” He tosses the blanket over Caleb’s bare limbs and crawls onto the mattress beside him. “Better?”

“Mmmhmm.” Caleb reaches out, half-blind in the dark, and coaxes Fjord’s head down to his shoulder. It’s a bit bony, but Fjord wouldn’t move if King Bertrand himself burst into their room at that exact moment. “Go back to sleep.”

Still trapped in the shadowy, cobwebbed place between sleep and wakefulness, Fjord is happy to oblige.

**Author's Note:**

> Was that warlock lube, you ask? Yes, yes it was. 
> 
> I love these tired dads a lot, so I'll probably leave this series open and add to it as I'm inspired :) Feel free to leave a comment and follow my tumblr @erebones, it's very campaign 2-centric right now but I'm catching up on the first one so that may change.


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